


Variations on a Theme by Macy's

by pagination



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avenger!Clint, Civil War? What Civil War?, In a world without COVID-19, M/M, Never a SHIELD agent Phil Coulson, Seasonal retail, Vaguely drabble fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27422809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: T-minus thirteen days to Black Friday. It’s one of the busiest times of the year at Macy’s, leading up to the busiest time of the year. Phil has been planning for weeks, assigning roles, walking his people through their parts, drawing up contingency plans and making sure they’re memorized. His people are prepared, his floors are prepared, everything will run smoothlyas God is his witness.It's a pity Clint Barton isn't smooth.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 134
Kudos: 175





	1. Variation 1: Lenox Highgrove Park Dinnerware ($143)

**Author's Note:**

> I am crazy busy, so of course I decided now would be a good time to get back into writing a bit. I don't know, man. The Avengers fandom is not really my jam anymore, especially with everything Civil War and beyond, but I found these random snippets in my old computer and felt the urge to add more.
> 
> No promises about finishing it, because I'm awful. Also, I haven't worked retail in centuries, and never worked at a department store, so who the hell knows if it's anything like realistic. Anyone who's up for correcting my understanding of behind-the-scenes at Macy's, feel free. 
> 
> Don't correct me on customers not being stupid shits, though. Because you'll be wrong.

T-minus thirteen days to Black Friday. It’s one of the busiest times of the year at Macy’s, leading up to _the_ busiest time of the year. Phil has been planning for weeks, assigning roles, walking his people through their parts, drawing up contingency plans and making sure they’re memorized. His people are prepared, his floors are prepared, everything will run smoothly _as God is his witness_. 

So of course Fucking Fred happens.

“This,” Fred says, showing all his teeth, “is Clint Hanson.”

Phil regards him blankly. The new hire—Hanson—is a grim-looking blond man in his thirties, with a face that looks like it’s met one too many two-by-fours during its career. He’s dressed in a purplish-brown abomination that’s tight around the shoulders and arms. It’s not an ill-fitted suit, exactly, but it definitely isn’t what Phil would have expected to see on anyone who’s not color-blind and gone through orientation.

Hanson’s face grows even more sour at the short silence.

“Nice to meet you,” Phil says at last, offering his hand. 

“Phil’s one of my best people,” Fred tells Hanson. “He’ll be able to show you around and teach you everything you’ll need to know. His department’s one of our most profitable. He can show you around. Everyone knows Phil. He’s practically running the store.”

There’s no ‘practically’ about it, which Fred knows just as well as Phil does. Just as Phil knows Fred doesn’t hire anyone unless it’s as a personal trade in favors or repayment of some debt. His hires are almost uniformly horrible. 

Phil sighs, anticipating inconvenience in his future. Fred is gone between one blink and the next.

“Uh,” Hanson says, looking confused at his employer’s disappearance. “Do you need my resume?”

A resume is a nice improvement on the usual quality of Fred’s hires. Phil is pleasantly surprised. 

They get all kinds at Macy’s, seasonally speaking. Even with the higher standards set by being the flagship store, they’re a varied lot. High school dropouts, second career mothers, ex-Wall Street rehabs. They haven’t really gotten a type like Hanson before, though. His work record lists six years at a circus, four years in the Army, thirteen years as an independent ‘security contractor,’ and his last gig: three days as a barista.

“Three days?” Phil asks, curious.

“It felt like longer.”

“You quit?”

“The coffee shop sort of—“ He makes a vague handwavey gesture that’s somehow far more descriptive than one might expect. “Boom?”

This is a conversational turd that would disqualify someone from retail at any other time of the year. “You should fit right in here,” Phil says without irony.

“I’m not really good with—” Hanson begins, and looks around himself like he’s baffled at finding himself here, now, in the mothership of New York consumerism. Specifically, in the dinnerware and wedding registry section of Macy’s Cellar floor.

“China?” 

“Breakable things.”

“China,” Phil sighs.

“And, well. People. Places. Budapest.” At Phil’s slowly rising eyebrow, he adds, “Mostly I just beat them up if they irritate me.”

“You beat up Budapest?”

Hanson shrugs, conveying he can’t take responsibility for who—or what—might irritate him at any given moment.

Phil has worked for Macy’s long enough that he has no fundamental problems with this philosophy. “Corporate probably has something about that in the handbook, though I don’t think they’re that specific about it.”

Hanson brightens. “It says we're not allowed to beat up fellow employees.”

“Nothing about customers?”

"Nope. Just fellow employees. I checked.”

Phil says thoughtfully, “Seasonal retail is an interesting life choice for you.”

“It’s a paycheck.” Hanson shrugs again, and eyes a woman wandering into the section with the kind of wariness normally reserved for frothing dogs and door-to-door evangelists. She approaches the china display wall. Hanson goes into high alert, muscles tensing in a way Phil recognizes from years in war zones.

On the off chance his new employee is thinking of tackling the customer, Phil suggests, “Maybe stay away from actual assault during your first week.”

Hanson’s sudden, mischievous smile has the disorienting impact of a flash grenade. “That’s nice. None of my other bosses have ever set that expectation with me until after the fact.”

“Hm,” Phil says. 

“Call me Clint,” Hanson adds.

Phil's calling it now. This one’s going to be Trouble.


	2. Variation 2: Fiesta Monochromatic Collection 4-pc ($59)

Clint Hanson has a resting bitch face that scares small children and animals. It’s nice. Once engaged though, he’s friendly to a fault, which to be fair by Phil’s standards means  _ he voluntarily talks to people _ . Two days into his new job, Clint knows the names of everybody on his floor. Four days in, he’s been invited to join the ongoing poker game with the guys in the loading docks. Phil’s never managed the latter, but he’s not jealous so much as he is confounded; the loading dock guys tend to hide and stare at him from around corners when he shows up, so really he didn’t know they had it in them.

Since Clint isn’t full-time and Phil’s so busy his hairline is starting to sprint towards the back of his skull, they don’t cross paths that often at first. Mostly Phil gets the impression that Clint is doing just fine with what minimal training he squeezed out of his colleagues. He's clever enough to figure out how to get things done, even if it’s not necessarily by the book. 

“Has Fred sent you to orientation yet?” Phil asks him, the second time they actually talk.

Clint looks him square in the eyes and said, “He’s definitely thinking about considering it.”

Which means that Fucking Fred’s going to treat it like a voluntary colonoscopy and give it a hard pass, like he does most of his personnel management responsibilities. Phil sighs and prepares to deal with the consequences.

Periodically, Fred emerges from whatever hole he’s hiding in to harangue them all about meeting their Macy’s credit card sign-up quotas. New York City gets a constant influx of new residents wanting to stab themselves in the fiscal bowels, so it’s not too hard a quota for experienced employees to meet. It’s more challenging for a seasonal, who might be able to find the emotional nipples of New Yorkers, but don’t necessarily know how to twist them. Of all of them, Clint is the only one who meets his quota in the first week, somehow managing to accomplish the near impossible without once doing anything recommended by Macy’s sales training.

“It’s easy if you just remember MAGIC,” Phil overhears Julie, a ten year Macy’s veteran, telling him. “‘M is for Meet and make a connection; A is for Ask questions and listen; G is for Give options, give advice; I is for Inspire to buy, and sell more; and C is for Celebrate the purchase.’ Get it? MAGIC.”

“What,” Clint says blankly.

“Which part of it didn’t work for you?”

Clint mouths a few words in silence, checking back over Julie’s spiel, and then decides: “All of it?”

Mostly, he seems to get by on the kind of customer service that makes most retailers and their lawyers recoil, but charms the odd customer into fishing out her credit card. 

“He’s not doing anything right,” Julie says bitterly when she catches Phil rearranging Santa mugs. “He just doesn’t get the MAGIC thing. I keep  _ telling him _ . I don’t think Fred sent  _ any _ of the seasonals to sales training.”

Phil can hear Clint’s distinctive drawl nearby, educating a fascinated Asian couple about Norse drinking traditions and their destructive impact on crockery. While Phil watches, he adds visuals by lifting a display mug from a Fiesta set and throwing it on the ground. It bounces.

The customers’ eyes light up. Phil quells the unexpected urge to laugh at the surprised offense with which Clint glares at the mug.

Julie, though, is honestly distressed. So. “I’ll have a few words with him about how  _ not _ to sell,” Phil promises, while the customers pile two enormous boxes of Fiestaware into Clint’s arms and herd him, protesting, towards the register. 


	3. Variation 3: Bernardaud Etoiles 5-piece place setting ($501)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Guys. Democracy in action. Sometimes, you hate it. Sometimes, you love it.
> 
> Today, I am happy. It is a good day. Have a quick smile, on me!

“Please don’t tell customers that’s an anus pattern,” Phil says, briefly closing his eyes.

Clint frowns at him. “You said be honest about the pros and cons of the plates. Eating shit off a pucker is a con. Heh. Eating shit off a pucker.”

“It’s $500  _ Bernardaud Etoiles _ ,” Phil says, and for fuck’s sake, now that he looks at it, it really does look like an anus. He pinches the bridge of his nose. In the background, Clint's customer exclaims, “Oh my God, this is amazing!”

“Hah,” Clint says smugly. “Told you.”


	4. Variation 4: Kate Spade New York Charlotte Street East 16-pc Dinnerware Set ($285)

T-minus seven days to Black Friday.

Phil has thirty-four seasonal hires assigned to Housewares. He’s taken Somalian warlords down with fewer people. That would be because the US Army has a minimum IQ and training requirement before it hands its people HK416s and sends them out to conquer.

After watching one of the new hires ring up an All-Clad sauté pan (regularly $319.99, on sale now at $199.99) as three blenders and a pair of socks, he rotates out five of the most competent of the regular team to train the newcomers, and retreats to the break room. He has a headache. Since the break room is empty, he takes advantage of the unusual quiet to consider the therapeutic effects of live ammunition and yoga. He’s had personal success with one. The other he’s not sure he’s flexible enough for.

“Hey, boss-like guy,” says Clint’s voice behind him, while he eyes a newly-made cup of tea without enthusiasm. 

Phil doesn’t start, though it’s been a long time since anyone has successfully snuck up on him. He does take a deliberate second to steady the reflexive tremor in his hand, taste his tea, then dump it out into the sink before he turns. Clint is standing a safe distance away, looking sheepish and uncomfortable in his suit. 

He’s wearing a shiny, grayish-green debacle of secondhand off-the-rack today. His socks don’t match. Phil’s eyes throb. He puts on his blandest smile.

“Good morning, Clint.”

Being confronted with civility appears to throw Clint for a loop. He squints at Phil. “You look like crap,” he accuses. He may be friendly, but he’s friendly despite having the social skills of a drunk honey badger.

“I look like a highly paid manager for Macy’s flagship store seven days before Black Friday,” Phil corrects.

“I thought you weren’t a manager.”

“I’m not highly paid, either, so all in all my life is proving to be a bit of a disappointment.”

This prompts a snort of amusement from Clint, so Phil pats himself on the proverbial back. He has other fish to fry though, which coincidentally enough is what the coffee pot smells like. He sniffs at it. Caffeine is supposed to help with headaches.

“You look good in your suit, at least. I know,” Clint adds before Phil can find something tactful to say about the one he’s wearing. “Mine is shit. I borrowed it from someone. I won’t wear it again. Hey, so question. Why haven’t you fired me yet?”

Insofar as conversational segues go, this one hits like a semi through a bowling alley. Phil looks in the coffee pot. Nothing is floating in it. Good enough. “I’m not your manager.”

“I know, but everybody knows you’re in charge.” Clint shrugs. “What you say goes, and I know I’m shit at retail.”

“An hour ago, Kelly asked a customer if he was pregnant and then tried to rub his belly for luck. Ten minutes ago, I found Fred trying to process a refund for a pair of used, unwashed underwear that Macy’s doesn’t even carry.”

“Fucking Fred, our actual manager?”

“I try very hard not to think about that,” Phil sighs. “What happened to the customer you were talking to yesterday?” He pours himself a cup of coffee, tastes it, then adds four sugar packets. “The anus one?”

Clint looks confused. “He left.”

“Did he buy the plates?”

“Yes?”

“So now we know something we didn’t know yesterday, which is that there’s a market for fine china with an anal motif. This is how we grow as people.”

Clint makes a strangled sound, half amusement, half disbelief.

“You’re not bad at retail,” Phil translates, since Clint seems to need the clarification. “Your methods may be unorthodox, but you hit your targets. Unfortunately, given seasonal pay scales, competence will have to be its own reward.”

Phil feels something heading for his head, and automatically snaps up a hand to catch it—one, two little tubs of creamer—without looking. He rips them open to dilute the swill. Clint, whose quiet laugh has an oddly warming quality, announces, “The guys are right. You  _ are _ kinda amazing.”

“Foul lies,” Phil says. The creamer isn’t enough to fix the coffee. His gaze drifts along the counter, pausing on a bottle of Sriracha that Skye left when she was fired two months ago.

Clint is there before Phil can do anything useful with it, gently removing the bottle from his hand. “I’m on break,” he says. “I’ll pick you up a cup from the Starbucks on the corner. How’s that sound?”

Phil tries to be a professional about it, he really does, but his look at Clint might border on the pathetic. Something about it seems to amuse Clint anyway, because he smiles. The expression transforms Clint from a slightly terrifying back alley bouncer to someone who’s been allotted more than his fair share of charm. Phil blinks, taken aback.

He eyes his coffee suspiciously. There’s a rainbow glistening across its surface. That can’t be right.

“Large drip?” Clint suggests, sounding almost fond. He pats Phil on the shoulder, already heading out the door. “I’ll be right back.”

It’s not until he’s gone that Phil even flinches at the touch.


	5. Variation 5: Wedgewood Renaissance Gold 5-pc setting ($230)

T-minus five days to Black Friday.

“So hey, P.C.,” says Skye, wandering into the Cellar inventory room with a Red Bull in each hand. “That new guy? He’s like a hobbit Daniel Craig. I kinda want to tap that.”

Convincing Skye to stop calling him P.C. is a lost cause, and Phil has long since given up the effort. He doesn’t bother to look up from the laptop that’s the centerpiece of his lunch. He does snap his fingers at her, though. She ambles over obediently. He plucks one, then the other can from her hand, stretching to empty the open one out in the garbage before tossing it towards the recycling bin. 

Her squawk as she snatches back the other can is pure outrage. “That— you— my caffeine! I was drinking that! It was a  _ sacred sacrament _ , my act of worship to C8-H10-N4-O2! It’s against the law to interfere with an employee’s practice of her religion!”

“Ex-employee,” he reminds absent-mindedly, scrolling down days’ worth of sales records. He peers up at her. “How are you getting through security back here again?”

She rolls her eyes. “ _ Duh _ ,” she says, and wiggles her fingers in the air in a vague  _ bibbidi-bobbidi-boo _ gesture. 

Phil pauses to reflect that there was a time when his inner monologue wouldn’t have made Cinderella references. His inner monologue has gotten much more interesting since he left the Army and started working at Macy’s. Also, more profane. It’s worrisome.

“Back to the hobbit Daniel Craig though,” Skye says, wriggling into a seat on the nearby ladder and popping open her drink. “I know he’s probably old enough to be my—my best friend’s older brother or something. Best friend’s older brother from the wrong side of the tracks, with smoking arms and did you  _ see _ the way his ass—”

“Skye,” he says, breaking into this hymn of objectification. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

She wrinkles her nose. “I want to throw my leg over him and ride him like a St. Bernard. But only if you don’t want him.”

Want him.  _ Want _ him? Somewhere between Kuwait and Walter Reed Hospital, Major Phil Coulson lost his libido. He hasn't seen it in three years and counting. “Leaving aside the unsettling implications of that imagery—” he begins.

“Nuh uh. No denying it. I saw you watching him earlier. And you were smiling,” Skye says, pillowing her chin on her hand.

Phil is taken aback. “I smile.”

“Not like that. It was a _special_ smile. A smile with _intent_. I have eyes.” She points at them. Pointedly. “Like a hawk. They see all. And they saw you. Smiling. It just occurred to me that you haven’t actually been on any dates since we met. Have you? I’m pretty sure I would’ve known, seeing as how I live in a van under your window. You don’t even own a real bed yet. Should I be worried about you, P.C.?”

“I feel there's a gratuitous level of irony in what you just said. Are you sure you want to open the door to judgment, Skye?” 

Characteristically, she pays no attention to this. “I feel sort of responsible for you, since I pulled you out of your sad life as a shut-in and turned you into a real boy. I mean a badass, terrifying, grown man who isn’t a boy at all," she amends hastily at his frown. "One who I respect tremendously because he’s like a— a big brother figure to me. A different kind of big brother than the one I want to ride like a St. Bernard. And, I mean, you sort of saved my life from aliens, so I figure I owe you one anyway.”

There was no 'sort of' about it. “If you wanted to do something for me, you could stop making a joke of Macy’s security.”

“Or I could set you up with someone like Clint, who seems really nice and like he could be amazing in the sack and, incidentally, has an ass that should be a national treasure. I mean, unless you’re not into guys. In which case I can look around.” She looks doubtful. “Like, there’s Julie, but she’s a hoarder and has six cats. What’s your type, exactly? Because I think your best option’s Clint.”

"You have my permission to ask if he'd like to be ridden like a St. Bernard," he says dryly. 

“Yeah, but there're other puppies in the pound, and if you like him— C’mon, P.C.,” Skye pleads, jiggling a foot. “It’s not that he’s a guy, right? I mean, he’s hot, in a totally ugly pretty way. Tell me you look at his ass and don’t want to sink your teeth into it. And I’ve seen him looking, too. I bet it wouldn’t take much. You could get him to like you. I mean, of course he already likes you, everybody likes you, but I’m pretty sure you could get him to  _ like _ like you.”

He stares at her over the rim of his glasses.  _ Like _ like. Shades of grade school pipe up in the back of his head. 

She bites her lower lip. “Okay. How about this. I’ll write a note for you, and help you get started. You can thank me later.”

“A note? What, like ‘Will you date me, if yes, check this box?’” he asks, faintly.

“Oh my God. P.C. P.C.” She presses his forearm. Her eyes are like Bambi’s, freakishly huge. “You have absolutely  _ no _ game. None. You are a beautiful, beautiful butterfly. Don’t worry.” She pats his hand. “I got this. This’ll be my new mission. I’ll take care of everything.”

Got this? What  _ got this _ ? She beams at whatever it is she sees in his face. He sighs. “Go away, Skye.”


	6. Variation 6: Kate Spade New York Gardner Street Platinum 5-Pc Setting ($165)

T-minus four days to Black Friday.

“Army? Or Marines?” 

Phil, his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, looks at Clint. He is far out of his regular department. Even in his work attire, or perhaps especially because of his work attire, Clint looks out of place in men’s suits. The fit of his current atrocity, a difficult puce that Phil wants to burn, gives him the hopeless air of an ex-convict borrowing his pimp’s clothes. 

Misunderstanding his frown, Clint waves a hand. “I’m on break, Boss Lite. So, Army? Or Marines?”

“Army,” Phil admits. Clint raises an inquiring eyebrow and, surprised at himself, Phil adds, “Ranger.”

He’s immediately embarrassed. Not for being a Ranger, obviously, but for the impulse to impress Clint that prompted the confession to begin with. Clint, though, just nods as though Phil has confirmed some private suspicion. “How long’ve you been out?” 

“Four years.”

Clint squints at him. “Combat veteran? Yeah, you’re a combat veteran. Officer?”

He makes a noncommittal sound, which Clint accepts with a satisfied nod. At Phil’s inquiring eyebrow, he explains, “You have—” Something in his grin changes: it’s practically _louche_. “Command presence. Captain? No. Major or Lieutenant Colonel?” 

Phil’s about to answer when the hold music cuts off and a brusque voice demands to know what the problem is. In Bulgarian. The Tailoring department specializes in service and bastardy. He holds up a finger to pause Clint, then explains—for the third time, this time in Bulgarian—why it’s unacceptable for a suit to return from Tailoring with cigarette burns in the pockets.

He’s more restrained about his language than he thinks Charlotte hoped for when she asked him to do this favor for her department, but halfway through, Clint starts to twitch. Then smirk. Then cough in a peculiar way behind his hand. 

When Phil hangs up, the first thing Clint says is, “Sorry. Had a thing.” He gestures at his throat, then attempts another fake cough.

“You understand Bulgarian?”

“Only a little. A few words. Some specific words.” Clint grins. “Those specific words. In that specific order. So, Rangers. And you know Bulgarian.”

There’s an inquiring lift to the words, so Phil says simply, “I had a Bulgarian nanny,” and then follows up with, “I am absolutely lying,” before Clint can dig into it.

“Classified?” 

“Irrelevant, except that the skill allows us to synergize with Tailoring to better serve our customers.”

“You said that whole thing without even cracking a smile,” Clint says, impressed. “You’re my new hero.”

“Retail is serious business,” Phil informs gravely.

“Your eyes give you away, though.” He leans on his folded arms to gesture with a finger towards Phil’s face. “You do a good poker face, but you smile with your eyes.”

“I’ll make a note,” Phil says. He narrows his eyes now, considering Clint and his easy slouch against the counter. He’s starting to inch into Phil’s personal space. Suspicious. Friendly as Clint is, Phil is certain he has some sort of ulterior motive for hanging out with Phil during his down-time. He’s already considered and rejected a few possible reasons. Clint doesn’t seem the type to want to kiss up to the boss, nor has he shown any more criminal interest in Phil’s responsibilities regarding inventory and customer credit cards.

Phil’s wryly aware that if he were anyone else, the thought that these are the only two reasons any employee would have for talking to him would be signs of needing therapy. In him, they’re signs of improving mental health. His therapist would be so proud.

“Kelly told me you volunteered to take his shift on Thanksgiving night,” Phil says. “You don’t have holiday plans? Family or friends you’d rather go visit?”

Clint shrugs. 

“Family?”

“Don’t really got one,” Clint says, without any signs of distress at the thought. “The only one left’s a brother, and I haven’t seen him in a decade. No idea where he is now. It’s just me and my dog. Never really celebrated it, so it doesn't mean much to me. Might as well come in to work and let someone else have a Thanksgiving they can enjoy.”

Barring the dog and the brother, it’s not so different from the reasons Phil comes in to work on holidays. He has a few other connections in New York besides Skye, but they’re old story lines, buried deep, and come with their own baggage. If he reached out to them, if he let them know he made it out of his last few tours alive, they’d welcome him with open arms. He’s just not ready for that yet. 

“The store closes at two on Thanksgiving Day,” he says, scribbling instructions on the back of a blank sales tag for Clint. “If you don’t have any plans before your shift starts at six, come in through the east employee’s entrance at around three and head down to C-level.”

He passes the tag to Clint, who reads it. “Is this—“

“The store’s direct security line,” Phil says, before Clint leaps to any assumptions. “They’ll page me if you can’t get in for some reason.”

“What am I coming in for?” Clint asks, suspicious but docile. He shoves the tag into his pocket. “I mean, is this some sort of secret Macy’s inside circle initiation ceremony? Will I need to drop my trousers and bend for thirty?”

Phil opens his mouth to explain. Then he closes it again at the sharp gleam in Clint’s eyes. “Make sure you wear clean underwear,” he says instead, and checks his watch.

Taking the hint, Clint throws an unsurprisingly correct salute and turns on his heel. His suit coat is not only poorly fitted, it’s too short, Phil notices as he saunters off. It barely covers his hips. 

On the other hand, his suit pants are excellently tailored. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, just realized I lost part of a sentence above. Fixed!


	7. Variation 7: Lenox Westmore 5-pc setting ($200)

T-minus three hours to Black Friday.

Security pages Phil twenty minutes past the hour to inform him that Clint has checked in and is wandering around, looking confused. Phil runs him to earth on the eighth floor. He’s staring, shell-shocked, at Santaland, which is in mid-construction for its grand opening in a few hours.

He doesn’t notice Phil’s arrival. Given the sensory overload of what Macy’s considers an appropriate expression of holiday sentiment, it’s understandable.

“Thirteen thousand square feet of Christmas joy,” Phil says, coming up beside Clint to watch while a crew puts together another building for Elf Village. “Live elves, enchanted forest, animatronic reindeer, singing snowmen, trains—“

Clint flails a hand towards the entry sign:  _ Welcome to Santaland! Every step you take is a step closer to Santa! _

“—All ruled by a despotic international criminal with environmentally irresponsible fashion sense and deeply disturbing stalker tendencies, who’s enslaved an indigenous people to feed the insatiable maw of commercialism,” Phil finishes. 

“Well, there goes all the magic,” Clint says, glancing aside at him. The curl to his mouth is softer than Phil is used to seeing, but his eyes are still wide and shining. Awed. Happy.

It makes something tight and cold in Phil’s chest warm a bit. A tiny bit. He rocks back on his heels, his hands finding his pockets. “You’ve never seen Santaland before?”

“I’ve never been. Never really had time, before.”

“It’s impressive,” Phil admits, “although I wouldn’t recommend checking it out during store hours. Try wandering through before the store opens. Every New Yorker should see it at least once, if only so they can sneer at tourists later.”

Clint grins brightly. “Tell me there’s a dinosaur. I’m rooting for a T-Rex. Life-sized.”

“Corporate felt that a life-sized T-Rex that occasionally eats customers isn’t in keeping with the Christmas spirit.”

“I didn’t say anything about it  _ eating _ people,” Clint protests.

“What’s the point of a T-Rex if it doesn’t?”

Clint laughs. The sound makes Phil smile involuntarily—he’s surprised at himself. It’s a real smile, not the one he trots out for social events or work—and the rarity of it is distracting enough that he doesn’t start when Clint leans in to bump shoulders with him. Unthinking, Phil bumps back. It feels companionable. Nice. 

He has the vague thought that Clint smells good.

Phil looks him over again, lingering in approval on the line of fabric across his shoulders and outlining his hips. For a change, Clint is well-dressed in a dark blue dress shirt and dark gray slacks, a demonstration of good fit, good fashion, and good taste that brings into question all the previous suit choices. Then again, Clint would hardly be the first person to pick up work suits from the local secondhand store. Buying a four-hundred dollar suit for a job that pays only a few dollars above minimum wage isn’t a reasonable investment.

“You look nice,” he says quietly.

Unexpectedly, Clint’s ears go pink. “So, this thing that’s happening tonight,” he says, his attention determinedly focused on a woman staple-gunning Christmas lights onto an actual tree. “I made sure to change into my best underwear. Clean, even. Do you want me to drop my trousers here? Because I don’t know how I feel about doing that in Christmastown.”

Phil’s mouth quirks in another smile, only for him to catch his breath when the imagery of that catches up to him. He’s taken completely by surprise by his own reaction. After almost five years of almost no sex drive, it’s odd to feel his libido stir. “No underwear needed,” he says without thinking, distracted. Clint makes a tiny choking sound. Phil raises an eyebrow and refuses to blush. “It’s just a get-together downstairs in the Bar and Grill. Turkey, trimmings, a few beers—it’s better for some people not to be alone during the holidays.”

Clint side-eyes him again, his shoulders lifting defensively. “I don’t mind being alone.”

Phil blinks at him, thinks through his response, and then says, “Just because you don’t mind it, doesn’t mean you have to be.”

For a moment, it seems like Clint is about to say something. Phil waits, but Clint just looks at him, a wondering furrow to his brow, so Phil tips his head and leads the way downstairs.

The employee Thanksgiving party predates Phil’s time at the store. It’s a tradition that serves Macy’s employees who don’t have family and friends to fall back on, or prefer not to dash from a Thanksgiving party to work the Black Friday prep and opening shift. This year there are almost four hundred twenty employees in the Bar & Grill. A few of them are still dressed in their outfits from staffing the earlier parade. Some of them have brought children or significant others. It would be a stretch to say that Phil _brought_ Clint, but he feels proprietary regardless as they ride down the escalator.

Skye, who Phil  _ did _ bring, is already settled at a table with a plate of food, a beer, and—Phil frowns—her laptop. He spares a second to hope that she isn’t ‘fixing’ Kumar’s parking tickets for him again, when Clint nudges his shoulder and nods towards her. She’s waving vigorously at them, her face alight. “Your girlfriend?” he hazards.

“Dear  _ God _ no,” Phil says without thinking, so appalled that it takes a couple of seconds to register why Clint starts laughing. He defies the blush that threatens, explaining, “She’s a friend, but she’s not— I’m old enough to be her father.” He considers, then amends, "Maybe not father. Younger uncle."

“Some guys would think that’s a plus.”

“I prefer shared life experience. Or if not that, at least a common frame of cultural reference.”

“She doesn’t dig your Benny Goodman?”

“It was when she asked me if Tommy Dorsey was ‘that guy on Mickey Mouse Club’ that I lost all hope for her generation." 

That wins Phil another laugh. He’s unsurprised to find that it makes him feel warm inside, the sound itself a reward. 

“Are you serious about Tommy Dorsey?” Clint asks.

“Entirely.” Phil quirks an eyebrow at him, wondering about Clint’s own taste in music. Instead of asking though, he notes, “She’s a neighbor and a friend. She’s actually the reason I work at Macy’s, though she doesn’t work here anymore."

"Sounds like a story."

"I owe my job at Macy's to her," he says grimly.  "Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

He doesn’t get the chance.

“You’re  _ Clint _ . Hi! Welcome to the madness!” Skye says with deep satisfaction, pouncing on them as they approach her table. “Damn, Phil. You look  _ hot _ tonight.” 

Phil covers his face with a hand, missing Clint’s response. It’s going to be one of those nights.


	8. Variation 8: Royal Albert Old Country Roses Vintage Collection ($95)

T-minus five minutes to Black Friday.

Carol is on the store intercom system, counting down the minutes to midnight. Department managers are going through a last check of their areas, with the usual exception of Fucking Fred who is desperately smoking one last joint in the staff bathroom, and security is setting up their highest visibility stations for traffic management and theft. 

Phil is still chasing down a weird blip he’s seeing on register four when he senses someone coming up behind him. He catches the reflection in a portable metal hanger rack: Clint.

“Hey,” Clint says, his voice rough and warm. 

“You shouldn’t have too much traffic in your section tonight,” Phil says, trying not to sound like he’s forcing the words out between clenched jaws. As usual when there’s someone behind him, the small of his back burns. He deliberately forces his spine loose and swaps out the scanner for a new one. It honks at him. “Follow Lisa’s lead. Between her and Kevin, you should have plenty of support. If anything gets stressful, just call in for backup.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, looking uncomfortable. “About that—“

T-minus two minutes to Black Friday.

Phil turns off the scanner and turns to look at Clint, expectant. The sudden attention seems to fluster him, just as it did the other day in the break room. Whatever Clint was planning on saying, he seems to have forgotten what it was. Shuffling in place like he is, he resembles nothing so much as an uncertain raw recruit. It’s surprisingly easy for Phil to remind himself of the days when he was an officer and pull the uniform around himself, even if it’s only in his imagination. His shoulders straighten.

“You’ll be just fine, Clint,” he says kindly.

Clint snaps his mouth shut. Then his ears pink up again. His smile is surprisingly sweet. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome."

“Listen,” Clint says, leaning forward in a swift exhalation. “After this. After this thing. The rush thing. After that’s over. Maybe not tonight or tomorrow because, you know, whatever, but after? Would you be interested in, I mean, if you’re up for it—“

T-minus zero minutes.

“Doors open!” Carol alerts. A bell clangs, and there’s a sudden roar of noise and cold air from below.

Clint’s face falls. “Aww, customers,  _ no _ ,” he despairs, and sprints for the escalator.


	9. Variation 9: Spode 12-pc Christmas Tree Dinnerware Collection (Reg: $240 / Black Friday special: $95.99)

Phil’s therapists are not sure that working for Macy’s is a good idea for someone with his issues.

Phil is not sure that working for Macy’s is a good idea for  _ anyone _ .

On the other hand, Macy’s corporate thinks that an ex-Army officer with combat and SpecOps experience who once actually killed a man with a pair of ivory Calvin Klein tights is a  _ fantastic _ person to have working for them during Black Friday. Phil doesn't feel qualified to comment. Macy's analysts are literally hired straight out of the CIA.

For the third year in a row, he’s the one to supply first aid when a customer collapses. For the second year in a row, he has to perform CPR. For the first year ever, he doesn’t have to order someone to call the in-house paramedics and direct security to guide them in, because Clint is unexpectedly there to do it for him. Clint, who’s supposed to be on the Cellar floor, but for some reason has business on the fourth floor at the right time to herd spectators away and direct clear, understandable orders at shocked fellow employees.

Ambulance transport shows up at 02:35. Phil ends up taking down two members of a three-person gang of snatch and grabbers at 02:41 with a Lenox French Scroll napkin ring ($34.00 for a set of 4) and an indignant customer’s grande skinny mocha. Clint takes down the last one with a lobbed bar code scanner that flies hard and true, straight into the back of his skull.

“Good shot, soldier,” Phil congratulates, as he vaults over a railing to land on the escalator in pursuit of the flying would-be thief. 

He has the third guy face down and zip-tied a few seconds later. Clint catches up to him shortly after, his eyes shining and cheeks curiously pink.

The EMT’s stabilize their first patient, and start to work on bleeding would-be thieves at 02:47.

Reporters show up at 03:10. 

Fuck his life.


	10. Variation 10: Lenox Opal Innocence Silver Collection 5-pc place setting (Reg $215 / Black Friday Special $128.99)

Skye shows up at 04:30, splaying herself across the break room table like she’s offering herself as an entree. She’s wearing Snoopy pajama pants and a camisole in the middle of a New York winter, which is one problem. The bigger one is that she has light shadows under her eyes but is full of the feral glee that means she’s been doing something borderline treasonous in her van all night and has yet to sleep.

One of the seasonal hires eyes her in an overly appreciative way. Phil’s eyes narrow at him. He pales and flees.

Oblivious to this, Skye declares, “P.C. Guess what! I told him _all about you_.”

Phil, who’s spending the desperately needed fifteen minutes of his break troubleshooting Cuisinart product codes, returns to his printout. There’s been an occasional problem with the record-keeping on Cellar inventory flow over the last month. He’s been trying to reproduce it consistently for days now, so he can call the vendor’s support line again and yell at them. “Told who?” he asks.

“Clint.” She doesn’t have to say it for the _duh_ to be obvious. 

“That must’ve been a short conversation.”

“I told him how we met,” Skye says, sounding far too smug for the hour. “I told him about how I jumped in your window when the Chitauri came and hid under your sink, and how you killed all those aliens without batting an eye and then rescued the building with that alien gun thing that you _totally_ should’ve kept instead of turning it over to those Men in Black types. They looked really shady to me. And then how I helped you get the job at Macy’s—”

“By hacking into their records and then tricking me to the interview, so you could use the distraction to search Fred’s office. Poorly, I might add.”

“—and then you tried to teach me how to toe the line for the Man by getting me a job at Macy’s too—”

“Motivated entirely by spite.”

“—which looks really _good_ on you, P.C., did I ever mention?”

“Did you tell him how I had to fire you for being a cyberterrorist and hacking into Macy’s credit card transactions to hunt down Ian Quinn?” Phil asks politely.

“I prefer the term ‘cyber freedom fighter.’ And no, that didn’t come up. I told him I left due to philosophical differences with unhinged and morally bankrupt capitalism.” She rolls over, folds her arms on the table, and props her chin on them to stare at him. “Aren’t you even curious about what Clint said about you?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

“Not even _this much_?” She pinches her forefinger and thumb together, squinting through the gap at him.

“No.”

“ _Fine_.”

Silence falls for a few seconds. Phil waits it out with resignation, scanning a few more things to check their prices with tax and then does the math manually, one by one. Skye is vibrating like a paint mixer.

“He says you’re _hot_ ,” she blurts out at last.


	11. Variation 11: Noritake Blueshire Dinnerware 5-pc place setting ($174)

After the madness of Black Friday, Phil usually spends every day until Christmas nurturing a low-level admiration for Macy’s customer base. There's an edge to their madness that feels profound somehow, as though their normal idiocy has transcended mere mortal shackles. He can only stare and marvel. It’s a bit like wandering a zoo. _In this enclosure, we have the Common Pygmy-brained Pearl-Clutcher, who decorates its nest with pink kitchenware and phallic overtones. Over here is the Rabid Rank-Breath Spittle Blower, known for its diet of antacid pills and self-righteousness._

“So, like, you were in the news, right?” the customer asks, her eyes huge. “You saved some woman’s life.”

Phil, still trying to sort the individually bubble-wrapped pieces of the coffee machine the customer is returning, tries not to grit his teeth. “I was just the closest person at the time. Many of our staff are trained in CPR and first aid for the purposes of emergencies,” he deflects, which has the benefit of being true, actually, and, “Ma’am, did you . . . _disassemble_ this coffee machine?”

“All the pieces are there,” the customer says, peering into the box. She’s a small, attractive woman with angular blond hair, and a fashion sense that drove in on a semi from the Jersey Shore. Something about her is making Phil hyper-vigilant. “You have to take it if I have all the pieces, right? I have a receipt.”

Phil has seen the receipt. He’s not so convinced he’s seen the coffee machine. “Ma’am—” he begins.

“Call me Barbie,” the customer says, peering up at him through her eyelashes. “So are you famous?”

It’s easier to smile these days, after a long, hard road of therapy. Sometimes though, his customers make it very hard. “No, ma’am,” he says at his blandest. “I’m salaried. I don’t think we can take this coffee machine back.”

“It’s still in factory condition.”

“You disassembled it.”

“No, I didn’t.” 

He averts his gaze from the screw in his palm and lifts an eyebrow. She looks defiant. It shouldn’t even have been possible for her to undo it; the bolt heads are a proprietary shape. He knows for a fact the necessary tool costs ten times what the machine does.

She looks triumphant. “Someone _else_ did.”

There are all kinds of appropriate responses to this. Fortunately, Clint happens to step off the escalator just then, holding two cups of coffee. Phil’s gaze is drawn the way it used to automatically focus on the greatest threat in the room, the way it targeted exits and security, weapons and unexplained movement. 

He smiles. He can’t help himself. Clint meets his eyes and lights up like a Christmas tree.

It’s distracting. It’s embarrassing. Phil tears himself away from looking at Clint and finds Barbie watching him, her green eyes sharp. His hand twitches for a gun he’s not carrying.

“I’m sorry, ma’am—” he begins, refocusing as Clint approaches his counter. The rest of what he’s about to say is lost though, when Clint leans up against the counter and is almost immediately assaulted by an ear-piercing, “Oh my _Gawd!_ ” A split-second later, Clint is staggering under the acquisition of an armful of squealing, wriggling Jersey blonde, both arms thrust out in a desperate attempt to keep from spilling the coffee.

Phil pauses, startled at a small, ugly roil of dread, and forces himself to let go of the pen he’s gripping like a knife. He plucks the coffee out of Clint’s hands and gets a grateful glance in reply. He smiles faintly back.

The woman—Barbie—seems determined to crawl right through Clint’s chest. It’s only with difficulty that he manages to peel her off, his forehead creased in confusion. Phil is uncertain, but there’s a split-second where he’s suddenly sure Clint’s frown is false. He reminds himself firmly that he doesn’t actually know Clint that well.

“I haven’t seen you since the El Segundo thing!” Barbie says, clinging to Clint’s arm. “Oh my _Gawd_ , you look good. Are you working here now? That’s crazy!”

Clint’s forehead knits tighter. “Barbie,” he says more warmly. “Huh. You’re blond again. I thought you were going to change it.“

“Red, yeah,” Barbie says, twirling a finger in her hair and widening her eyes in a teeth-grindingly vacuous way. “But you know, blondes have more fun, am I right? Oh my _Gawd_ , are you the Clint in the newspaper? The one who helped take down those robbers with this guy, here? You two are, like, a total crime-fighting life-saving duo. It’s like the _movies_.”

She’s pasted to Clint’s side, determinedly clinging to his arm—and Clint doesn’t look in any way inclined to remove her. Phil places the pieces of the machine back in the box and pushes it across the counter at him. “You have good timing,” he says, ignoring a faint twinge of regret. “Ma’am, Clint should be able to help you with this. Clint, do you mind? I’m afraid there’s a small issue in the back that Fred needs help with.”

Clint’s mouth falls open in confusion. Phil doesn’t wait for agreement. With a quick, plastic smile at Barbie he retreats to the store rooms, where he scares a good five years off of Fucking Fred’s life—always high-stress during the holidays, Fred is now twitching like an epileptic rabbit during hunting season—and decides to finally figure out what’s going on with the inventory codes. 


	12. Variation 12: Noritake Hammock Rim 12-pc Dinnerware Collection (Reg $400 / Black Friday Special $119)

A handful of days pass. Emergency Services are called out twice. Phil catches a shoplifter trying to steal forty pounds of All-Clad pans in a stroller. She claims her nine-month old is a kleptomaniac. Skye hacks into the TSA Lost and Found for her now traditional no-budget Christmas shopping, and disappears with her van on some mysterious errand to New Mexico.

Clint switches his shifts after the encounter with Barbie and disappears for four days. It’s not a crippling loss, except that one of Phil’s long-term people in the Cellar also quits without warning. He’s a fifteen year veteran. Phil gets his phone number from HR and tries calling them to see if he can talk him back. Nobody picks up the phone. The next day Lisa, his right hand in the Cellar and a six year veteran, quits as well. Phil goes to visit her during his day off. It takes four hours because he can’t stand the press of bodies in the subway long enough to make it in one go, and has to disembark four times just to breathe and keep himself from panicking.

Nobody even answers the door.

Phil goes to his group at the VA, does his meditation exercises, and thinks wistfully about Somalian warlords with aggressive security practices.

Skye visits him at work on Tuesday, sporting a tan and a look of manic triumph that’s frankly, a little worrying. “Puerto Antigua,” she says darkly, when he gives in to her orders not to ask her where she’s been by asking her where she’s been. “I have two words for you. Secret physics.” She pauses, counts off on her fingers, then holds up two more and tacks on, “Plus, _Thor_.”

“Is that a code word for something?" He considers. "Besides the Avenger or Norse god?"

“Muscles and hair,” Skye says wistfully, before shaking herself. “You had to be there. I’ll tell you later. There's a whole secret government conspiracy. More importantly: spill.” She props her elbows on his counter and plants her chin in her hands, eyes shining. “How’s it going with Clint?”

 _Going_ with Clint? “I wasn’t aware there was anywhere to go?”

“Sure there is! He thinks you’re totally hot, remember? He hasn’t made a move yet?” 

Phil ignores the first question because it is obviously a sign of Skye’s deep-rooted insanity. “He’s been out.”

“Planning the big date,” Skye says wisely, if without any basis in fact or common sense. So not wisely at all, really. “I bet it’ll be spectacular. There’ll be music, mood lighting, a fantastic dinner— speaking of, make sure you never cook for him. At least not until he puts a ring on it. Because sexy badass you may be, but cooking—" She shivers. Then she brightens. "Hey, speaking of, guess what I got as a Christmas present for you. Go on, gue—”

She cuts off, inhaling sharply. Phil looks up.

Clint is walking across the third floor in boxer briefs and no shirt, his skin pale and glistening. Muscles. There are muscles. Lots of— and skin. Lots of skin. And ass. There is ass. Wow. Ass.

Hm.

While Phil and Skye stare, Clint hops on the escalator and sails downstairs.

Skye clutches at Phil’s arm. “You have to hire me back,” she says, low and urgent. “I have to work here again. I _have to_.”

Fortunately, it’s a couple of minutes to store closing, so while Clint is drawing _plenty_ of eyes from customers, it’s unlikely he’ll be caught by anybody in the management chain. Hopefully he isn’t still wearing his name tag—pinned to what? His briefs?—so no one will realize he’s an employee. Sadly, naked people happen on a semi-regular basis in Macy’s. Phil escapes Skye with some difficulty and goes in pursuit of Clint, taking the escalator steps two at a time. He catches up with Clint on the Cellar floor, just about to head into the Bar and Grill.

Somehow, Phil had missed during his first—he’ll admit it, his first _stare_ , he was _staring_ —that Clint was carrying a wadded up ball of cloth. The dull shine of grayish-purple matches the suit that Phil remembers him wearing earlier in the day. The broad, wet stain of brown on the fabric and the sharp, sour smell of piss, on the other hand, is new.

Clint freezes mid-step on seeing him, his eyes going round. “I can explain.”

Phil looks him up and down, noticing old scars here and there: two knife wounds, cigarette burns on his sides, the scattered freckles from a shotgun. It’s a body that’s lived hard and worked hard. He feels a pang that has nothing to do with attraction. 

He looks back up again. And waits.

After a second, Clint says, “Oh. You actually want me to . . . do the thing.” He rubs sheepishly at the back of his neck. “There was a baby? And the customer wanted me to hold him while she tried out a Vitamix? And then she disappeared, and I was left holding the baby? And its diaper fell off?” He lapses into a thoughtful silence, removing his hand from his neck to blink at it. He examines his fingers, then sniffs at one. His nose wrinkles. “It had a freakishly huge bladder?”

The fact that every sentence is a question—it sounds like a concussed sit-rep—is strangely endearing. “And the stain?” Phil asks, hoping for the best. It doesn’t _smell_ like—

“Coffee!” Clint blurts out in horrified realization. “It’s not— no. Just pee. Nothing else.”

Oh good. “And you were taking the suit to the Bar and Grill because—?”

Clint looks at the entrance to the grill. There are waitstaff inside. They _were_ cleaning up. Now they’re leaning out the door, ogling him. “They have a dishwasher?”

“They also have fire. It can burn things,” Phil points out.

“Yeah, but then I’d be naked all the way home.”

Phil considers reminding Clint that they’re standing in the world’s second largest department store. Then he meets Clint’s wide eyes and remembers the size of the paycheck they take home each week.

“Come with me,” he says instead, snagging a display apron off a ceramic Santa-themed pig to toss it at him.

Retail staff don’t have lockers to speak of at Macy’s, though the chefs and some of the other employees do. Phil makes do with a small filing cabinet drawer that he shares with Suspicious Returns paperwork, June 5, 2011 - June 4, 2012. Clint peers over his arm while he pulls out the small go bag he keeps there. Inside, he has the few essentials he’d need to pick up and leave New York in an emergency: habits of an old paranoia. He does his best to hide the contents as he pulls out clothes, but there’s a knowing look in Clint’s eyes when he accepts the bundle of T-shirt and slacks. 

Clint doesn’t comment though, beyond a simple, “Thanks,” and the more regretful, “I’m gonna get pee all over your clothes. I really need a shower. It’s all over me.”

Phil determinedly averts his eyes from Clint’s backside when he turns away to drag the pants on. His gaze catches on the suspiciously dark spikiness of Clint’s hair instead. It looks wet. Surely that baby didn’t—

“Aw, _hair_!” 

His look of dismay is too much for Phil to resist. His mouth twitches into a smile. “Where do you live?” 

“Bed-Stuy. It’s okay,” Clint says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself. “I’ll fit right in on the subway. Nobody’ll even notice. Piss is like, the Old Spice of public transportation.”

Dear God.

“Finish dressing,” Phil says, giving up all thoughts of his evening plans. “You’re coming home with me.”

“Why?” Clint asks, perking up. “Where’s your place?”

“It’s close,” he promises.


End file.
